CHRIS CRITTENDEN – Five Poem Series

Posted: June 2, 2013 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Flower In Diary

 

fingers accost

mildewed bliss,

a derelict text

 

of must and grime,

 

hopscotching

like sad sandpipers

through shrouds of frogeye,

 

clinging

 

to zests of X,

elations of O,

avoiding shapes like bell jars,

 

or The Cross.

 

they pause on a flat insect,

its bluebottle

cerulean guess,

 

and then six flips later

a trumpet

blares its mane–

 

petal roaring

on the disintegrative

line:

 

delicate

yet timeless

touch-me-not,

 

do not

for i dwell in the desert

of the crucified.

 

 

Porn

 

she’s buoyant like a mermaid

shedding gowns of water.

 

promises that breathe deep,

paradise without fruit.

 

our kiss shares a one-sided mouth,

no duet, stuck

 

between sunray and wet dream.

illusions of slave and pixel.

 

i shudder together,

pretend to know

 

nipple, thigh and cleft,

pelvis and thrust.

 

but only one pulse bares

the tempest of the ache,

 

no blush fading gentle

on the other side.

 

Standoff

 

he lived in a niche of

dusty books next to a vein

of stress-herded cars.

 

the quiet of his garret

throbbed from the arrhythmia

of stoplight and jump.

 

for all intents

his studious grind

was an ignored itch,

 

a tip of pencil lead

broken off from lost times,

faint in the body

 

of the Pace.

 

doves lived in

the chimney, lullabied

the hearth.

 

the desk kept stacks

of outdated words

no one had time to believe.

 

he would die–someday–

of a heart attack in the same

way that the Pace–someday–

 

would fail to go on.

side by side, neither

could ever admit

 

the other mattered.

 

 

Ghost Orgy

 

the fast rage

has shucked off our flesh,

counts our bones to hang them

on a hallelujah sway

of cowed pines.

 

centrifugal church

that cuts hope with frost,

revelation thick with shrieks,

and guilt that breeds battles

to feast in whirls,

 

as if sins were snowflakes

whipping each other.

serpent jerks in chains.

 

outliers of the phantasms

of the gone.

 

our prayers

jackknife like wishes off broken crystal,

cinders of a lost moon

fierce across a weeping arabesque.

 

our beseech faceless,

steadily drowned by the hurl

of each others’ plucked fangs.

dethroned.

 

False Apathy

 

 

dust

 

on chocolate shrubs,

sinks of cracked ocean behind.

the land paralytic,

roils of blur in venomous broth.

any twitch births a chew

of photonic ants.

 

vultures

 

like the wrath of hurt pupils,

stalking what they need to despise.

victims lie down anyway,

lulled by a wealth of tricks:

seductive sheens of wet silver,

and honey that beads on straw,

impossible to taste.

 

clouds

 

lunge from the blue trapdoor,

as oatmeal dunes blister with petals.

the sun slurps it all down, swift

as Saturn ecstatic, eating his kids.

the ichor bathes sharp hornfels,

pools into sandy quilts,

the fabric restive,

 

shambling.

 

 

 

 

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